The Reason They Want Her Dead Before the Execution

The clang of the iron gate pulled me to my feet before I had time to think. The man who stepped into the West Section wore a gray apron—a cleaner. He set a bucket of water on the floor, straightened with the handle still in his grip, and when our eyes met he only looked put out. He never came as far as Cell No. 1. I nudged the cart just enough to block the meal slot and drew the bowl out. A nick along the rim caught my finger, and with it the memory settled into certainty: this bowl, and this bowl alone, had been handed to me apart from the rest.

If it was poison, what was I supposed to do? The moment I called anyone, I would have to explain what I had heard from Servia—why I had doubted food taken from the Ration Distribution Room, and on what grounds I had believed a prisoner. Leave the bowl where it was, though, and she would have to eat it. I switched it with one of the remaining ration bowls and slid the original meal beneath the cart. The grand idea that it might serve as evidence came only afterward. All I had wanted, first, was not to feed it to her.

"I can't say the meals for the other cells are safe either. The bread is something I kept back to eat myself. For now, have only this."

I drew the paper-wrapped bread from my pocket. A hard corner broke off, and crumbs scattered across my uniform. I remembered that it was mine, though I had never tasted it. I tore off a small piece and ate it. Servia frowned. I swallowed what was in my mouth, then pushed the rest into the bowl.

"I told you not to eat it if you were only checking."

"This is my bread. I didn't eat it knowing it was poisoned."

"I've seen people die on promises like that."

Her voice was cold, but her eyes moved from my mouth to my throat and back again. I touched my neck without thinking, then dropped my hand. I didn't want her to see that the words had landed. Servia took the bread and, instead of eating it all at once, broke it into small pieces, forcing down the pace of someone who was hungry. I poured what little water remained in my flask into the bowl and sat close to the slot this time, so she could lift it herself. When she reached, the chain drew taut, but it reached her mouth.

Behind the cart, the cleaner scrubbed the floor. I set meals into the other cells and glanced back at Cell No. 1. Servia was seated on the stone ledge again. Whether she took the cleared bowl as repayment or as another scheme, I couldn't tell. She still had no reason to distinguish me from the person who had tried to poison her. When the distribution was finished, I wrote on the meal checklist that Cell No. 1 had refused intake. The bread she had eaten was mine. I couldn't record that she had eaten a meal from the ration room.

Coming out through the entrance, I found the same middle-aged guard looking over the passage log. This time a name surfaced from Evan's memories. Dran—day-shift supervisor of the West Section. He took the meal checklist and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ran his eyes down it from the first cell.

"Didn't eat?"

"She sent the bowl back. She's to be executed tomorrow. I didn't think I was meant to force the meal down her throat on top of that."

I let the end of it trail, trying to sound like an irritated guard. Dran didn't inspect the bowl. He stepped past me instead and asked the cleaner whether he had picked anything up from Cell No. 1—checking, it seemed, that the Confession Statement had not fallen to the floor. I pushed the cart toward the Ration Distribution Room. My right heel ached and slowed my steps, and I went slower still, listening for him to call me back.

The ration room held two empty pots and a wash tub. The man who had portioned out the meals was gone. Thomas, stacking bowls he had brought from the east wing, looked up at me. The moment he spotted the bowl under my cart, he reached for it, meaning to finish the leftover porridge. I caught his arm. I must have gripped harder than I meant, because he said it hurt. I let go and apologized, but I drew the bowl over to my side.

"It smells spoiled. I was going to take it to the medical officer."

"If you want it, just say you want it. I'm not that hungry."

"Thomas, don't eat this. I'm asking you."

The joking look on his face hardened. He glanced at me, then at the bowl. For all I knew, he thought his friend with the injured head was acting strange. I didn't tell him about the poison. I hadn't confirmed anything yet, and I didn't want to drag a friend in on nothing but a suspicion I had heard from someone else. Thomas hesitated, then tossed me a damp cloth—the kind used for moving hot bowls.

"While you're with the medical officer, let her look at your ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠head. You might be dizzy and smelling things wrong."

I nodded. I wrapped the bowl in the cloth and stepped into the corridor. The infirmary sat on the middle landing of the central staircase, close to the guards' break room. Guards and prisoners both used it, but a prisoner could not come without permission. I knocked twice. A voice inside told me to enter. When I opened the door, a woman with short brown hair was seated at the desk, rolling bandages. Martha Penn, from Evan's memories—the medical officer who, last night, had judged that my forehead did not need stitches.

"The liquor's worn off. If you're nauseous, ask to be taken off patrol today. And don't come tumbling down the stairs again."

"Could you take a look at some food? I think it's spoiled."

Martha took the bowl but did not bring it to her nose. She lifted a little with a wooden stick and set it on a small glass plate, then took a bottle of powder from the cabinet. Watching her, I thought that the modern tests I knew would be no help in a place like this. She dusted on the barest pinch of powder and waited. Where it touched, the porridge turned blue. I nearly declared that a change of color meant poison, then shut my mouth. Spoiled food might do the same.

"Which cell?"

"West, number one."

Martha looked at the door. I followed her gaze and closed it. She set the stick down and rose from her chair, laid a hand on my forehead, and studied my eyes. I wanted to ask why she was examining me all of a sudden, but she spoke loudly enough to be heard outside—telling me not to push myself today—so I waited. After that, her voice dropped.

"Who caught the smell? You, or the prisoner?"

"She did. I didn't taste it."

"It reacted to White Azure Flower Extract. This test alone can't tell us the concentration. And it isn't a medicine you feed a person. Leave the bowl here."

I couldn't feel relieved. That Servia had not lied frightened me less than the fact that someone had actually put the stuff into the food. I asked Martha whether she would report it upstairs. She didn't answer at once. She opened a log, checked the record of medicines that had gone into West Cell No. 1, and slipped another sheet in beside it.

"Leave a record first. Distribution time, who handed over the bowl, whether the prisoner ate. Only what you know for certain. Don't write that someone attempted a poisoning."

I took the pen. My hand shook, and I botched the first word. I nearly asked for a fresh sheet, then struck the mistake through with a single line and wrote it again beside the error. I had assumed that if I could read, writing would come naturally too. It didn't. A familiar motion still lived in my hands, and I followed that motion while I chose the words. Martha didn't rush me. When I had finished and she was checking it, she asked about the water issued to Cell No. 1.

"It's been cut off. Until she signs the confession statement."

"For how long?"

"I don't know exactly. I was told she wouldn't be given any today either."

Martha folded my record. On a medicine order she wrote the risk ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of dehydration and an instruction to issue water in small amounts, then signed it. Even giving a prisoner water required a medical officer's signature. Taking the paper, I asked whether she could examine Servia. She said she could file a request, but permission to enter was a separate matter. She made no promise to come soon. Strangely, that answer was the more trustworthy one.

As I was about to leave, she asked why I had bothered to bring it all the way here. Throwing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it in the trash would have ended the matter. I nearly said I was afraid the spoiled meal might be sent out again, then stopped. She already knew I had brought it because I had listened to the prisoner.

Martha looked at me for a moment. Then she handed me a cloth and ointment for my heel. She had seen me limping, she said. I thanked her and went out. In the corridor I read the order.

Nowhere on it was there a word that said she was innocent. What I had confirmed was not that, either. There was something in the food that should not be eaten. She had known it, and she had warned me. Only those two things.

When I showed Dran the order, his displeasure was plain. I explained that I had stopped by the infirmary for the examination of my head and had shown her the meal while I was there. He didn't seem prepared to tear up a paper Martha had signed herself. He told me to take a water jug. He added, though, that the shift log was to state exactly that it was by the medical officer's instruction. I said I would. I did not say the poison had been confirmed. Martha's test was not the end of the matter, and I had no idea how much of this Dran already knew.

When I returned, Servia was sitting close to the door. Whether she had waited after hearing my footsteps or had been there from the start, I couldn't tell. I set down a small pitcher and explained the medical officer's order. She held out her hand for the paper. I showed it to her through the slot, and she checked the name and the signature first. Only after she had taken a mouthful of water did her gaze move to my face.

"What did she say? About that food."

"They confirmed a component of the White Azure Flower. She said they don't know the concentration yet."

She closed her eyes. It was not the face of someone who had won, and there was no pleasure in having been right. I crouched outside the door. The place was quiet on every side, but I was close enough to hear at once if someone called from the entrance. Thinking of the time left until the next shift, I chose what to ask first.

"Was the poison they say was used on the Saintess the same thing?"

"Today was the first time I heard the exact composition. The interrogator opened a small bottle and made me smell it. He said it came from my room. I had never seen that bottle before."

"Are you saying she's in danger now?"

Servia lifted her head. I realized it had sounded as though I were worried for the Saintess. What I had actually wanted was the incident as it stood in the original novel. I had chosen my words badly. The corners of her mouth hardened, and I started to explain, then stopped. If I went on, it would only sound like an excuse.

"I asked the wrong question. I meant to ask whether you ever prepared that poison."

"I didn't. I never liked Elysia, but I never tried to kill her."

She added what she had said to the Saintess. She had mocked her birth, dressed her down in front of the Crown Prince for not knowing etiquette, and tried to have her shut out of court gatherings. Listening, I failed to govern my expression. She saw my reaction. After a brief silence, she spoke in a lower voice.

"They said that because I had talked like that, I must have used the poison too. Everyone who already disliked me was perfectly convinced."

I couldn't declare her innocent on sympathy alone. But if the evidence of the poisoning was false, it had to be weighed apart from her other wrongs. Above all, the same component had turned up in a prison on the eve of an execution. It might mean there was someone who needed her dead before she could confess. Or it might be a drug meant to force that confession. I told her both possibilities. Servia thought for a moment, then pushed the paper on her knee toward the meal slot.

The confession statement was not only an admission of poisoning.

I read that passage twice. I couldn't remember whether the original novel had contained any such story. Servia followed my gaze to the place where it had stopped.

The shift bell rang at the end of the corridor. I returned the paper and stood. I wanted to hear more, but I couldn't stay long. Servia didn't try to hold me. Only, before I turned, she told me to move the pitcher farther inside, so a passing guard couldn't kick it. I shifted it as she said.

"Evan. Will you bring the next meal too?"

"Someone else has the evening. I'll find a way to check it."

"Only check. Don't you eat it."

I said I understood. Leaving the cell, I kept coming back to the fact that a woman due to be executed tomorrow had worried over my meal today. I wanted to believe her. Even so, I couldn't yet conclude that I was able to. When I reached the central staircase, Martha was waiting. In her hand was a medical officer's request for nighttime entry to the cells.

"Permission to examine Cell No. 1 was denied. They said to turn the meal test over to the warden."

She didn't press the papers into my hand. She folded them so no one else could see and tucked them into her coat. On impulse I asked where the bowl I had left on the infirmary desk had gone. Martha said she still had it in her keeping. Then she looked toward the stairs that led down to the west.

"The server changed tonight. They say a kitchen hand will put the meals in himself. They don't usually do that, do they?"